


oh, my found one

by honey_wheeler



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Victorian, Boarding School, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-18
Updated: 2015-04-18
Packaged: 2018-03-23 13:58:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 4
Words: 1,738
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3770842
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/honey_wheeler/pseuds/honey_wheeler
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>By day, they fill the halls, chattering and laughing, walking arm in arm with casual, girlish intimacy. It’s all so different than the world she’s known, a world of brothers and men, of a sister more interested in boyish pursuits than feminine concerns. Sansa’s heart thrills with it, with each whispered confidence between bosom friends, with every sly look and secretive smile.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. the way of wishes

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lit_chick08](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lit_chick08/gifts).



It’s everything she’d imagined.

All her life Sansa had longed for boarding school the way other girls yearn for blue eyes or their mother’s permission to wear their hair up like a woman grown. It had seemed a dream to her: a new life, a new world, a new Sansa.

The schooling is much the same as it would have been, she thinks. For all St. Maegor’s elite reputation, Sansa’s classes are no more than pleasantly challenging. Just as well; it leaves her at her leisure for all the things she likes best.

And what Sansa likes best are girls.

By day, they fill the halls, chattering and laughing, walking arm in arm with casual, girlish intimacy. It’s all so different than the world she’s known, a world of brothers and men, of a sister more interested in boyish pursuits than feminine concerns. Sansa’s heart thrills with it, with each whispered confidence between bosom friends, with every sly look and secretive smile. Mornings take on a pleasing routine in their large, shared dormitory, lines of girls lacing and tightening each other’s corsets, combing and pinning hair. Evening’s routine is even more pleasing; deft hands unlace the corsets they’d laced only hours before, clever fingers unbind hairpins and whisper over the aching scalp beneath. Rustles and murmurs fill the velvet darkness after final inspection, legs shifting and hands exploring beneath stiff counterpanes, the sound of bare feet on worn wooden floors giving voice to the ever-changing patterns of the girls of St. Maegor’s second year dormitory. Most only share their beds innocently, merely enjoying sweet-scented warmth and human contact. Others do more. Some are fickle, easily lured from one bed to the next to share hushed talk and sweet fumblings. A few are greedy, finding their way to many beds in a night, leaving a trail of giggles and sighs in their wake, a soft cry piercing the quiet every so often, one that only spurs more giggling, this time of the knowing variety. Still fewer keep only to one, those girls eventually coming to be regarded as a matched set, with one following wherever the other may go. Even if she might never know a single touch from any them, Sansa would love them anyway. They’re all so easy to love.

Yes, all easy to love, each in her own way, but none are so easy to love as Margaery Tyrell.

Sansa had noticed her the first hour of the first day. Impossible not to; Margaery is a lady among girls, a rose among daisies, as charming as she is sweet as she is lovely. Her friendship is a widely coveted boon among all the girls, and her affections even more so, even among those older than Sansa’s own year. Everything Margaery Tyrell has ever wanted, she’s gotten. 

Sansa proves no exception.

Margaery’s attentions are unexpected and thrilling. Sansa would worry that it might be merely a cruel trick, a schoolgirl’s jape among friends, if not for the envious eyes of other girls on them every time Margaery takes Sansa’s arm, or touches her with gentle, absent familiarity, or smiles at her in the morning after waking in her bed. Sansa knows from gossip that Margaery shares such favors with only a select few, flitting between her chosen girls with attentions so gracious and intimate that no girl has ever before objected to being but one of several. That Margaery chooses to include Sansa in such focus makes something wild and hopeful flutter in Sansa’s ribs like a caged bird.

That Margaery decides to share it only with her – keeping only to Sansa’s bed and leaving the rest of her flowers to be plucked by other hands – well, that only makes it all the better.


	2. softness. sweetness. honey, honey.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All her life, Sansa has been told that her body is a sacred temple, never to be profaned. Yet now, for the first time, she feels holy.

It’s a gift of a day, warm and sunny as if October’s forgotten itself and thinks it to be June. Such a day should never be wasted inside.

Margaery can charm anyone, even the irascible cooks in the kitchens. Sansa waits outside the door only a handful of minutes before Margaery emerges with a merry smile and a basket over her arm, one that Sansa will come to find holds bread and jam, boiled ham and pear cider and sweetmeats. They head to the meadow – their favorite place to escape from the watchful eye of Headmistress Mordane – and spend the whole of the afternoon laughing and picking through their spoils, offering each other choice bits of food, drinking droplets of cider from one another’s lips, drowsing in each arms under the heat of the midday sun.

“I miss you all day,” Margaery sighs, Sansa’s bodice laid open under her questing hands.

Sansa laughs, breathless. “You’re with me all day.”

“Not enough,” Margaery counters. “Not like this.” Even as she kisses her, Margaery’s fingers steal beneath her skirts, unbuttoning the slit in Sansa’s pantalets. Oh, what a wondrous invention that is, Sansa thinks as Margaery’s fingertips find her warm and wet and ready, what a clever person who thought of such convenience that allows Margaery’s touch on her flesh while she’s still entirely clothed. It is still new, still bright and surprising, that touch, but somehow familiar yet, something Sansa dreams of, waits for, aches to feel again.

This day, there is something even newer and brighter and more surprising, something that leaves Sansa hot and aching even before it’s fully happened. Margaery tips her back to balance on her palms. She folds Sansa’s skirts neatly about her hips, looking on what her fingers had touched, and something in Sansa knows what’s about to happen, perhaps even fears it, but wants it tenfold more.

It is part of the magic of the day: a beautiful girl in the grass on her belly, a dainty swipe of her tongue where her fingers part fabric and flesh. She peeps up at Sansa with a smile in her eyes, a smug cat lapping up sweet, heavy cream. Sansa gasps and twists. She wilts back onto the ground, hands flung above her head. Wild grasses scratch gently at her face and wrists, as prickly as Margaery’s lips and tongue are soft, as dry as they’re wet. The sun shines and sinks and begins to set, glowing red behind Sansa’s closed eyelids; it is too much pleasure to be born with eyes open.

“How sweet you are,” Margaery says at long length. Her tongue darts and delves between the words, teases and soothes. “How ripe. Like a fresh peach for me to devour, fragrant and sweetly bruised and dripping with delicious nectar. I confess, I am drunk on it.”

All the same, it is Sansa’s head that spins as if with drink, her blood that thunders heavy through veins that seem too small for such expansive feeling. She gathers and bursts, shaking with it, only to gather again, impossibly, wonderfully. Margaery builds an altar between Sansa’s thighs and devotes herself to its worship with lips and tongue and sweet words. All her life, Sansa has been told that her body is a sacred temple, never to be profaned.

Yet now, for the first time, she feels holy.


	3. how does it feel to be divine?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I shall never allow you out of my bed,” she vows, pressing the words into Sansa’s throat and breast, worrying one taut peak with the same gentle care.
> 
> _**NSFW image in body of text** _

She comes from money, such a vast quantity of it that Sansa, whose family is by any measure comfortable, can never comprehend the scope of it. Margaery’s family makes a sizeable donation over winter holidays, one large enough to earn Margaery one of the rooms usually allotted to the older students.

Along with her choice of roommates.

“Will you not miss the other girls in the dormitory?” Sansa asks the first night, holding her breath at the answer, at the feel of Margaery’s lithe, bare body against her own, all silk and downy thatch and gentle swells, a reckless indulgence in their new haven of privacy.

“Not now that I have you,” Margaery smiles down at her, and Sansa’s heart seems to snag on something sharp and piercing. Margaery kisses her, sucks her bottom lip into her mouth and worries it gently with blunt teeth. “I shall never allow you out of my bed,” she vows, pressing the words into Sansa’s throat and breast, worrying one taut peak with the same gentle care. Her legs twine and interlock with Sansa’s, the movement of her hips tipping the both of them, panting and trembling, damp with exertion and desire, up and over the cusp of bliss.

Margaery’s true to her word. The floor matron makes much of Sansa’s pin-neat bedding, her unswerving tidiness while other girls lapse as the year wears on, leaving beds unmade and linens rumpled. Easy enough, when it’s never once even been sat upon, let alone held a sleeping girl. It’s an amusing secret Sansa and Margaery share, one precious and dear, like all else between them.


	4. we will shake till we are again still

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Come back to bed, love,” Sansa entreats, stretching out a hand to Margaery at her desk. And Margaery does.

Margaery keeps a journal, one with thick-edged pages that smell of lilacs each time she opens the binding, and she writes in it with dense, careful script, sitting at her desk at all times of day and night to record thoughts she shares with no one, not even Sansa herself. Sansa doesn’t mind; they’re all allowed their secrets.

She sits there now in the light just past dawn, bare as a sylph, her hair cascading down her slender back in a rumpled velvet fall. Pleasure still pinks the skin at her cheeks and chest, at the enchantingly rosy tips of her breasts, at her knees and what’s between them. Sansa watches her from Margaery’s bed, though it’s truly their bed now that they’ve shared it these many months. She drowses, her body still warm and pulsing from the early-morning lovemaking that pinked Margaery’s skin, her eyes drifting into half-open crescents as Margaery bends to her writing.

“Do you ever write about me?” she hears herself asking, her voice thick with pleasure and sleep.

Margaery slants her a fond look. “Only when you do something that demands to be recorded.” Marvelous, how it takes only the merest arch of a graceful brow, the most delicate purse and quirk of her rosebud lips to make her otherwise cool, elegant mien seem like the most reckless form of abandon, as if the sweet, innocent face their teachers exclaim so over has become transparent to show something altogether different within, part goddess, part succubus, part witch, part angel, part ordinary – lovely, passionate, and oh, achingly wonderful! – girl.

“Come back to bed, love,” Sansa entreats, stretching out a hand to Margaery at her desk. And Margaery does.


End file.
